


The ferryman

by rainTrain



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bukkake, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Episode: s01e05 The Homecoming, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Protective Musketeers, Rare Pairings, Self-Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-17 01:04:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9297407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainTrain/pseuds/rainTrain
Summary: “You follow in the footsteps of your namesake,” Athos commented sardonically, “seeking payment for entry to the underworld. However, I am not sure this is what the ferryman had in mind.”Entry to the Court of Miracles demands a sacrifice.Please check the tags and warnings.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all,
> 
> I've never written anything explicit or m/m before - so don't know how this happened...
> 
> Apologies to Charon and the people of the Court for this reworking - I think it was that scene in the darkness of the Court - with Athos up against the wall that did it...
> 
> Please check the warnings and tags before reading.

“Why are they doing that?” D’Artagnan craned his neck in confusion.

With the thunderous clamour of rain on a tin roof, the creatures of the Court beat pots, tin mugs - even the scaffolding upon which they stood. Cowled, horned creatures in dirty rags - men, women and children all - shook knives and chains in the musketeers' direction.

“It's a warning,” Aramis replied.

Athos closed his eyes briefly. It wasn’t strictly true - but God willing the boy would never need to know any different.  
D’Artagnan instinctively fingered his sword hilt until Aramis held out a cautionary hand. “Do nothing, unless you're attacked.”

“So, where are we?” D’Artagnan asked warily.

“The Court of Miracles,” Athos intoned.

Passing under a low slung bridge, Athos ground his teeth. The situation was impossible. Aramis glanced over his shoulder the moment they emerged into the light, and their eyes met over D’Artagnan’s head. There had been a slim chance that their friendship with Porthos would ease their passage through the dank streets, but from the brazen noise, it was clear that Paris' hidden underclass still demanded payment.

Aramis reluctantly slowed. “This is too dangerous. We should turn back.”

“What about Porthos?” D’Artagnan asked, hesitating.

“He'll be safe for now. He has friends here.”

* * *

"Porthos was drunk," D'Artagnan said, eyeing his two friends warily. “I’m sure it was an accident, but… what if he’s guilty?”

Athos watched, unsurprised, as Aramis proceeded to pin D’Artagnan to the wall. “This is Porthos. You understand?”

Aramis’ eyebrows were raised in expectation, and D’Artagnan did not hesitate. “Yeah.”

Three reassuring taps on the chest, and the marksman freed the younger man, leaving a rather shaken D’Artagnan to rue his words.

Athos waited calmly for his opportunity, then declared, “I'm going in to find him.”

Aramis’ hand was wrapped in his collar before he could take a step.

“Alone I may have a chance of entering unnoticed. To speak to Porthos - find out what really happened that night." He pried his friend's reluctant fingers from his leathers, freeing himself. "We need to clear his name.”

“You can’t.” The marksman’s dark eyes were full of fear.

Athos held his gaze until the other looked away.

“I will go,” Aramis offered after a long pause. “I owe it to Porthos. Dear God, the number of times he has risked his life for mine. Besides,” he added quietly. “They’ve let me pass before.”

Athos looked his friend over - taking in the carefully trimmed moustache, elegant coat, and feathered hat. “And we all remember how that ended.”

Aramis flinched, but did not back down. “That was years ago, and I stand here now - unharmed.”

Athos raised a sceptical eyebrow, but silently cursed himself for the hurt he inflicted with the reminder.

Aramis changed tack. “Who says it will go any easier for you?”  
Athos heard the concession, saw the marksman’s pallor, and knew himself to be victorious. A strange kind of victory.

“I could go-” D’Artagnan offered, but was quickly shot down by both musketeers.

The vehemence with which he was refused shocked the boy into temporary silence, and his brow creased in hurt. “You don’t trust me,” he accused after a moment.

“It’s not that,” Aramis sighed wearily.

“Then tell me of the danger -"  
"It is not a danger, so to speak..." Aramis began, before he noticed Athos' quelling glare.

"What then? Truly, you can trust me with anything."

Athos did not soften his expression. Aramis' prevarication had brought about the awkward pause - let him be the one to diffuse the situation.

“He’s not a child,” Aramis said softly, "but as I do not see the Court surviving Louis' latest purges, I suppose there is no reason to divulge." The appeal of retaining his own secrets overriding his desire to reassure DArtagnan, he held up both hands against the young man's protests and turned to Athos. “I concede, and I will not forget it - nor will Porthos.”

"Porthos will not come to hear of this." Athos glared until the marksman looked away in agreement. “Go to the wren, see what you can find out.

* * *

The hood covered his features well enough, though the way ahead was less dark than he would have wished. He slunk from sheltered doorway to shadowed alcove, seeking the least conspicuous path into the heart of the Court. It had been years since he had ventured deeper than the fringes of the place, Aramis having taken their last trip upon himself.

A scuffling noise had Athos reaching instinctively for his sword, only to remember that he had divested himself of belongings that would make a sound - anything that might prompt the Court's people to kill before asking questions. It was only a beggar man crouched against the wall. With taut limbs and heartbeat raised, Athos proceeded slowly, his body instinctively preparing for combat while his mind contemplated his likely surrender.

He was lowering his hood and beginning to congratulate himself upon his success, reaching the candlelit passage that marked the entrance to the underground warrens without incident, when he rounded a corner to find himself looking down the barrel of a pistol. Two men wielding short blades emerged from the shadows to flank their companion - one half-masked, the other’s face fully obscured.

Heart sinking in resignation, Athos nevertheless rebuffed the first attack, shoving the masked man aside in time to block the knife thrust of the second. It did not take much effort on the swordsman’s part to propel the other into a wall, and then the masked assailant was back for more, Athos landing one last blow before the solid click of the pistol at the back of his head stilled his hand.

The aim of the handsome, dark skinned man did not waver, and there was pride in his features as he examined the musketeer.

“I’m looking for Porthos,” Athos admitted. There was a chance his friend’s name held sway here, though by the way Porthos had been unceremoniously knocked unconscious, he did not set store by that.

The leader silently motioned for his two guards to restrain Athos and slam him back against the stone wall. Harsh breathing echoed through the leather mask behind, while a curved knife forced him to raise his chin. Held fast against the wall by the two ragged bodies, the sour smell of the place was near choking.

“Porthos is safe,” the leader said. “You left him to die. We saved him - his real friends.”

“We came for him,” Athos said.

The masked man spoke for the first time, voice gruff as though disguised. “We’ve seen you with him - you four - always together. We _remember_ Aramis.”

Athos stilled - glaring - breathing harshly through his nose to steady his thunderous pulse.

A low chuckle. “But we hoped you’d send us the boy.”

Rage erupted in Athos’ chest and he bucked forwards - equanimity forgotten - only to be forced painfully back, the knife nicking the tender skin of his neck.

The leader held up his free hand. “Enough.”

“Take me to him,” Athos snarled

“You know our law: no payment - no entry to the Court.”

Athos huffed out through his nose, trepidation curling in his gut. He said nothing, playing for time.

“I told Porthos his friends had abandoned him. Looks like I was right.” The leader shook his head in mock-sadness and stepped back, sheathing the knife. “You are free to leave - but if we see you again-”

“I have little choice but to accept your terms,” Athos broke in.

“You surprise me.” The leader smiled predatorily, then bowing slightly. “I am Charon. My friends wish to remain anonymous.”

Porthos rarely spoke of his childhood - but the man’s name was familiar. There was some comfort in that. Perhaps a friend of Porthos could be trusted to honour their code, if nothing else.

“You follow in the footsteps of your namesake*,” Athos commented sardonically, “seeking payment for entry to the underworld. However, I am not sure this is what the ferryman had in mind.”

It has been said before,” Charon smiled. He raised sculpted eyebrows, expecting the musketeer’s name in return

Athos remained silent. They knew his friends and his profession. If they never discovered his name, so much the better.

The king of thieves shrugged. “We do not need your name - only your forfeit.”

Athos suppressed his bitterness at the words, saying with sincerity, “You have my word.”

“If you wish to enter the Court, you will give us more than your word. Prepare him,” Charon ordered.

Athos’ trepidation was born of the unknown, for he knew only that the creatures of the Court had a unique way of garnering trust, requiring the newcomer yield pride and partake in a token of the Court’s depravity in exchange for passage. The trade would furnish the Court with fodder for blackmail, disgrace, and broken marriage beds should the newcomer turn against them. It proclaimed to be an elegant solution, if a filthy one.

“Yes, my King,” the masked man breathed.

The masked man slid a leather clad arm around Athos’ throat, drawing him down to his knees.

“King?” Athos asked through the choking hold.

“Things have changed since Porthos left,” Charon replied simply.

At a motion from Charon, the shorter man grasped Athos’ sword arm and slammed the flat of his palm against the stone wall. Cold and sharp, a thick knife pressed harshly to the flesh of his wrist.

“Insurance,” Charon said apologetically.

Athos dipped his chin carefully as the masked man removed the arm around his throat. “Understandable.”

With practiced efficiency, the hood of his cloak was grasped, forcing his head back, and Athos looked up into Charon’s face.

“You would kill me if you had half the chance,” Charon stated. “But as a musketeer you must understand the need to protect your own. It is only by these means that we ensure the safety of our people.”

Athos curled his lip. “You could seek a less barbaric solution…”

“It is barbaric, perhaps, but effective - and there is another side to it. After tonight you will have forfeited something of yourself, as will we. No longer strangers, but brothers of a kind…”

Athos failed to hide his scorn, tired of the man's platitudes. "Admit that you and your men seek personal gratification and be done with it."

The man to Athos’ left tugged back on the hood of his cloak, and the musketeer’s breathing hitched as Charon roughly grasped his jaw, dark fingers digging into pale flesh. Charon’s other hand unlaced himself with short, determined tugs, and while Athos balked in anticipation, a small part of him hoped that the forfeit demanded might be a simple one.

He thought of Porthos - his friend’s loyalty - his deep laugh. Athos himself had recently faced execution and it had taught him what to value. Compared to a life, this was small sacrifice after all.

Charon had holstered his pistol in his belt, and in an effort to steady his nerves, Athos fixed his eyes on the firearm as the man drew himself out. The distraction did not prevent him from recognising that the man was already half hard, and he pulled against the restraining hold with instinctual trepidation.

Charon stilled, one thumb stroking Athos’ stubbled cheek, the other hand curled around his growing length - seemingly enjoying the anticipation. “We’re not selfish men - at least, not all of us.” He threw a grim smile to the man in the mask. "Tell me what you enjoy, and perhaps we can find mutual satisfaction.”

Athos jerked as Charon suddenly shifted, edging one leg between the musketeer's kneeling thighs. The masked creature behind tightened his hold, ensuring Athos could not escape the unwanted attention. The king of thieves pressed his advantage, rubbing insistently until the sheer stimulation had its intended effect.

“Not selfish?" Athos' sardonic tone was sure to have the desired effect. "You’d murder each other for the sake of a coin.”

Charon’s resulting backhand gave him some satisfaction, breaking the pressure on his groin. Athos was breathless now, his crotch throbbing with uncomfortable insistence. Licking his split lip, he half smiled, relishing the pain. If an act of degradation was required to save Porthos from the gallows, let it be like this - defiance over submission.

Charon smiled. “I see how it is.” He nodded to his companions. “We will be happy to oblige.”

Fear washed over the swordsman at the sudden bite of steel at his wrist - fear that they would take his sword hand - but it was merely a distraction. Charon had stepped in, the musk of him filling Athos’ senses as the wet tip of the man’s cock brushed the musketeer’s lips. As a strand of precum stretched languorously between the offending instrument and his lips, Athos attempted to turn his head away, only be to held fast.

“You think yourself above Porthos - above the people of the Court I can hear it in your voice.” Charon’s fingers pushed at his lips, slowly smearing the slippery liquid, demanding entry. “But you are not above us - and when this is finished you shall know it.”

The words stung, as intended. However, Charon could not see into the former comte’s heart - his conviction that Porthos was by far the better man. He was a stalwart friend whose honour, while not notwithstanding cheating at cards, drove him to fight for what was right - first to comfort a dejected recruit, and last to leave when Athos, drunk and maudlin, required a chaperone. Porthos was more than worthy of his sacrifice.

A harsh knee to the chest forced the air from Athos’ lungs and Charon took his opportunity, grasping the musketeer’s jaw and forcing his cock inside. The thick weight on his tongue, combined with the lack of air, made Athos wish to gag, but he held fast, fear for his sword arm above all else driving his compliance.

“Better,” Charon said, eyes half closed in satisfaction.” You must be an old hand at this,” he said, pushing slowly deeper. “A soldier and a musketeer - I’ve heard the stories.”

Athos felt the significant size swell between his lips and struggled to breath through his nose. A bitter taste at the back of his throat announced more precum, but the acrid substance slicked the slide between his lips - and with luck it would end the sooner.

He had started to begrudgingly accept the rhythm, allowing the man free rein and distancing himself as much as possible from the indignity of the act, when something warm pressed against the back of his neck. The masked man behind had seemingly freed himself one handed and was tugging himself off against the musketeer’s neck.

Grunting in distaste, Athos twisted forwards, only succeeding in allowing Charon deeper access to his throat - but the candid desires of Porthos’ old friend were somehow preferable to those of the masked man behind. Though could not turn his head to see, he suspected the third man to be similarly entertained,

“You wouldn’t deny my friends their pleasure?” Charon asked, amused at Athos’ reaction. He slid himself out, watching the glazed skin slowly emerge with hips still softly gyrating and eyes half-lidded. As he laved the wet cock across Athos’ cheek, his foot worked its way between the musketeer's thighs once more, rubbing until the musketeers’ reaction was unmistakable.

“Are you sure you do not wish to take advantage?” Charon asked, toes digging upwards, massaging through the leather. “We do not judge.” The hold on the musketeer’s left wrist loosened, allowing him to touch himself if he wished.

Breathing hard, Athos remained obstinately silent, resisting the temptation to relieve the pressure in his aching groin.

Charon shrugged. “Your choice.” He reached around and grasped the swordsman by the back of the hair, pulling his head back so that he could stand over the other man and fill his mouth. The king of thieves thrust down painfully to the hilt, causing the musketeer to spasm as his breath was stolen, then drew back a little, spare hand lifting his balls against Athos’ chin so that he could feel how deeply he was being taken. Sounds of flesh behind indicated that the other men enjoyed the sight, harsh breathing audible through their masks.

Athos’ left hand twitched. With Charon’s new harsh rhythm had come an unexpected throb of arousal. Control had been fully wrested from him, and there was a certain catharsis in that - something he would never had admitted in the light of day. Pleasure would be sought whether he willed it or no, and any abasement would remain a thing of the night - unless he betrayed the Court and its people.

“Perhaps I will tell Porthos how well you serviced me,” Charon breathed, clearly reaching the end of his endurance. “How I filled your mouth - how -” Charon’s hips stuttered, thrusts sharp and abortive, and the man’s fingers clenched in Athos’ hair to provide the extra stimulation he needed to bring him over the edge.

The thick cock throbbed between Athos’ lips. Groaning in pleasure, the king of thieves pushed to the back of his throat, and the resulting hot rush filled his senses. As the musketeer coughed, sucking air through his nose, Charon withdrew with deliberate purpose, holding the still pulsing cock against his cheek so that his release marked the man’s face.

As soon as Charon released his hold, Athos deliberately spat, forcing Porthos’ friend to move his boot lest it be soiled. Breathless and believing the act over with, he was unpleasantly surprised by the masked man pulling harshly back on his collar - the blade against his wrist suddenly digging in with sharp insistence.

He tensed in sudden fear, only to feel hot splatters across his neck as the men behind found their release, pinning him until the sticky paste ran down unpleasantly inside his shirt.

“Let him up,” Charon ordered, and the grip on his sword arm was instantly relaxed.

His knees ached from the restrained position, but his limbs were tightly wound as he gained his feet. Tamping down his anger, he pictured Porthos on the gallows to steady his nerve. He shrugged his arms from the light restraint and wiped his face with the back of his sleeve - the shirt was ruined in any case.

“Welcome to the Court,” Charon said. “I trust you will not bear a grudge.” The words were nothing, but his pointed glance at Athos’ groin, where the musketeer still strained and throbbed in his breeches, was too much.

Athos lashed out, closed fist striking Charon's solid jaw. The impact stung, but gave him satisfaction.

Charon staggered, taken aback, then righted himself - his hand outstretched with fingers splayed to prevent retribution from his henchmen. Regaining his breath, the King had the decency to look aside from Athos’ cold glare.

“Porthos has friends worthy of him," he said, surprising Athos. "That's how it should be. Pass word that this man shall have free passage through the Court,” Charon ordered.

The half-masked man left, tipping an invisible hat to Athos.

“Take me to see him,” Athos demanded for the second time that day, voice hoarse and the taste of the other man still on his tongue.

* * *

Athos rested an unsteady hand on the doorknob to Treville’s office. The murmur of familiar voices beyond betrayed its occupants, and he breathed out heavily in anticipation.

The three looked up as he entered. Aramis turned swiftly from his pacing, and while and Treville and D’Artagnan remained seated, the older man gave him a knowing once over. D'Artagnan's brow was creased, but the swordsman avoided his curious gaze.

Despite Athos’ swift but thorough toilette, a phantom smell of that place still lingered. Beyond his split lip, however, his friends would find nothing amiss. His fresh shirt was buttoned beneath his jacket, and his damp hair hidden beneath his hat.

Aramis approached him like a skittish horse, a gesture Athos did not appreciate given D’Artagnan’s ignorance of the situation.

“Are you well?” the marksman asked beneath his breath. His hand twitched upward as though seeking to examine Athos’ face, however something in the swordsman's demeanor warned him off. Aramis settled for dropping his hand to his friend's shoulder.

Athos dipped his head, giving the marksman a grim smile as he stripped off his gloves. His throat was still raw, but he raised his voice for the benefit of Treville and D’Artagnan. “I ran into a friend of Porthos. He believed that we left him to hang - that we abandoned him.”

D’Artagnan pushed himself up from his chair, head tipped back in exasperation, and strode to stand beside his friends.

“Porthos fought harder than any of us to become a Musketeer.” Treville shook his head. “He wouldn't give us up that lightly.”

“And he has not,” Athos assured. “We spoke - if only for a moment. He does not remember that night.” Athos closed his eyes briefly in recollection of Porthos’ anger at finding him there in the heart of the Court - anger at the risk he had taken.”

_"Would you rather I had sent D'Artagnan?" Athos' simple question had chilled Porthos' rage, sweat immediately beading on the larger man's brow._

_“I’m not worth it.” Porthos had shaken his head, not looking his friend in the eye._

_“You would have come for us,” Athos had countered, and no more words had been needed._

D'Artagnan's hand came down upon his arm, jerking him from the memory of Porthos' distress. The boy's eyes were filled with tentative concern, causing Athos' stomach to lurch. Clearly the boy had wheedled the information Aramis.

Athos shot the marksman a deadly glare.

The marksman shrugged apologetically. "He is one of us. One for all."

Athos ground his teeth, poised to jerk his arm from the boy's grip. However, the hesitation in the touch gave him pause, and he reluctantly acknowledged his gratitude that D'Artagnan had offered comfort rather than shrinking back in disgust. He briefly placed his own hand over the boy's in thanks. Such kindness should not be rejected out of hand.

Treville was speaking, and Athos drew himself upright for the Captain's assessment.

“Then the court is the best place for him - for now," Treville declared. "Start by making a call on Monsieur de Mauvoisin. Find out what kind of company his son kept.”

They left together, D’Artagnan upon his left and Aramis upon his right. They would not be whole until the shadow of the gallows no longer darkened the footsteps of their fourth - but there was comfort in the knowledge nothing - _nothing_ \- would prevent them from seeing it done.

* * *

 

*Note: Charon (Greek mythology) was the ferryman who carried souls across rivers in the underworld, between life and death. A coin was required for passage.  

**Author's Note:**

> Eep - it's done - very scary to post up :S
> 
> Apologies for any mistakes that slipped through.
> 
> If you read to the end, would be wonderful to hear what you thought :)


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